AC05 - Death Mask (11 page)

Anya collected her bag and left. Ethan remained inside for a few minutes, then joined her out by the elevators.

Once they were outside on the street, he asked, ‘What did you think of Masterton?’

She dared not say what she really thought about him being a smarmy peddler of his version of religion, but didn’t quite stay as diplomatic as she intended. ‘I can see him doing well preaching to the converted.’

Ethan laughed and Anya felt a natural warmth between them. For the first time she noticed that he laughed with his eyes as well as his mouth.

‘Those three can be intimidating but it helps to know what’s at stake. Despite winning the championship, the Bombers are haemorrhaging money and they need to do something radical to save the club. If news gets out that some of the players have been accused of rape, it could send the club into financial ruin.’

Anya didn’t know how her role would prevent that if the evidence did suggest the players were guilty, but she didn’t say anything.

They waited to cross a busy road.

‘What’s Buffet’s story?’ She had read that he was the mastermind behind the team’s success, but judging by his physique he had probably never been a player.

‘I’ve known him a long time. He comes across as cantankerous and isn’t afraid to bully people, but he’s got the best of intentions. He’s passionate about the game and knows more about it than just about anyone alive. Hey, we’ve got some time. I want to show you something.’

He hailed a taxi, and they climbed in.

‘The Rockefeller Center, thanks,’ Ethan instructed.

He bought two tickets at the booth out front while Anya admired the Metropolitan Museum of Art shop on a corner of the square that resembled the United Nations with all of its flags. ‘Let’s go,’ he said and led the way inside.

‘What are we here for?’ Anya asked. ‘What’s this got to do with Buffet?’

‘I’m glad you asked,’ Ethan said with a cheeky expression. ‘First, have a look around.’ Large black and white photos adorned the walls, with blue, pink and mauve hues highlighting historical anecdotes and facts. Anya read as they wound their way along. A picture of one of her favourite actors, Gregory Peck, caught her attention. So did two quotes, which were particularly touching.

Unto he who much is given, much shall be required.
It was attributed to John D Rockefeller Jr, the man responsible for the whole centre and its artwork collection.

‘OK, Rockefeller modified a biblical verse, but the sentiment is what Buffet believes,’ Ethan explained. ‘He is a descendant of John Jr, and has amassed his own fortune through property development and savvy investments. He may be pretty tight-fisted at times, but he demands no more from his people than he expects from himself.’

Ethan really did respect the old man.

They moved along to see images of the building in construction, and an iconic image of eleven workers with their feet dangling, eating lunch on a girder suspended hundreds of metres above street level. All Anya could think was how the lack of safety equipment compromised their lives. Even so, a letter from the Sheet-Metal Workers’ Union was cited:
In this bitter workaday world, especially now, your action stands out as a beacon light to those who earn their livelihood by the sweat of their brow.

‘You would have thought that in the Depression people would have resented Rockefeller with all his wealth. But they worshipped him because he saved the lives of who knows how many by giving them work so they could feed their families. My grandfather was one of those workers, and had nothing but
praise for people who used their wealth for good. I think Buffet’s a lot like John Jr. When I was struggling, Buffet employed me as part of his dream to help make football a game that provided hope to kids who struggled in early life, through poverty, drug addiction and child abuse or neglect. I don’t just do background checks. I help players out where possible and help solve problems they can’t manage alone.’

Anya had to admit that the cause was noble, and understood that Buffet was responsible for a large number of jobs, in fact an entire industry, built around his team.

Ethan’s history with Buffet also explained his willingness to arrange the hastily convened meeting that had just taken place. She wondered if he would have been so quick if it had been another team within the league. In fact, she wondered whether Ethan’s obvious fondness for Buffet and subsequently the Bombers would ever present a conflict of interest.

She wandered along a glass beam, designed to mimic the height of the famous girder, and felt giddy looking down, even though it was only an illusion. A photographer offered to take her picture, but she declined. Rockefeller still had had a duty to his employees to ensure their safety and that of the people below who might have been affected by his employees’ actions.

She hoped Buffet felt the same way.

Ethan answered a call and his face became solemn. His hair flopped over his eyes as he listened to the caller.

‘We have to go.’

‘You mean you brought me here and we’re not going to go all the way to the top?’

‘Don’t worry, we’ll make it back before you go home. That’s a promise. But right now someone is in serious trouble.’

A
nya and Ethan arrived at the private gym. Two ambulances and a police car were already outside. A large group of curious onlookers were being kept at bay by a couple of uniformed officers.

Ethan grabbed Anya by the hand and pushed through the crowd. ‘Doctor coming through, it’s an emergency.’ He said something to one of the police officers, Anya didn’t hear what, and they were allowed past.

A gym worker opened the door and pointed in the direction of the change rooms. Techno music blared over the sound system, while players sat on equipment or stood around, towels draped over their shoulders. Eerily, no one spoke.

‘Players get four hours’ exclusive access a day to train at specific private gyms when they’re in New York,’ Ethan explained as they entered the men’s locker room. Inside, a large Caucasian man was being worked on by four paramedics. One had the head, another performed cardiac massage. The other two administered drugs and kept notes.

‘Heard someone needed a doctor,’ Ethan announced. ‘What happened?’

The man at the player’s head checked the cardiac monitor, which showed a spike only when his partner compressed and
released the patient’s sternum. He obscured part of a large tattoo across the man’s chest.

‘Looks like an OD. We found that by his body.’ He gestured towards an empty vial. From the appearance, the markings had been removed. A needle and syringe lay nearby, drops of blood in its tip.

‘Is there a chance he’s diabetic?’ Anya asked, hoping to rule out something reversible. A quick scan of his naked torso failed to show any medical alert tag or bracelet.

Anya recognised him from the ballroom that morning.

‘Not according to his friend here.’ The paramedic nodded to a red-headed man.

‘We’re about to give dextrose,’ the paramedic announced.

Anya noted it was the same protocol as in Australia. The man temporarily stopped cardiac massage long enough to inject around fifty ml into a prominent vein in the back of the patient’s hand. The monitor remained silent.

‘What locker was he using?’ Ethan wanted to know.

The red-head showed him. ‘Is he going to be all right?’

No one could answer that.

Ethan rummaged through the locker contents.

Anya concentrated on the resuscitation attempt. ‘What do the pupils look like?’

‘Constricted and nonreactive,’ the man with the dextrose replied before returning to his tackle box.

If he were hypoglycaemic from an overdose of insulin, the injection of sugar should have made a difference. He could have been in a hyperglycaemic coma, but if he were diabetic there should have been signs before he collapsed. Fixed small pupils suggested opiates. The syringe could have contained heroin, methadone or a similar potent concoction.

‘How was he behaving before he collapsed?’ she demanded of the friend.

‘He had a good workout. After that, I saw him down a couple of bottles of Gatorade and we were joking around.’ The man clutched his head with both hands. ‘Why isn’t he waking up?’

‘Did anyone see him collapse? Any detail would help.’

The friend struggled to remain calm. ‘He came in here to do a couple of press interviews where it was quieter … I wanted an extra towel and he was … he was right there on the floor. Not moving.’

Ethan held an empty urine jar with a piece of paper towel. ‘There’s white powder on the rim. Looks like he used this to dissolve what he injected. My guess is heroin.’

‘Administering Narcan,’ one of the officers said and there was a pause. Again, the strapping body remained lifeless.

Anya turned to the red-head and looked him in the eye. ‘This is really important. Did your friend inject himself with drugs?’

The man’s eyes flicked to Ethan and back, as if asking permission to answer. ‘No. I mean, he swore he was clean from the moment his wife told him she was pregnant. His boy turned two just last month.’

Ethan slipped something from the locker into his pocket.

More Narcan was administered but with no effect. The paramedics exhausted their protocol before transporting the body to hospital. Nothing short of a miracle would bring this man to life. Even so, the emergency doctors would probably try intra-cardiac adrenalin and other last-ditch procedures so that at least the family would know that everything possible had been done.

Anya thought of a young child losing his father, and a wife about to become a widow. She wondered why.

* * *

Twenty-eight-year-old Robert Keller was pronounced dead at 8.45 pm. Anya and Ethan waited at the hospital until the news was confirmed, then headed back to the Hyde Hotel in silence.

In a corner of the bar, Anya placed a bottle of beer and an empty glass on the table for Ethan. She kept the whisky and dry for herself.

‘How well did you know him?’

‘I met him a few seasons back when there were rumours about his drug taking. He’s supposed to have got hooked on prescription painkillers then moved on to heavier stuff.’ Ethan took a swig, ignoring the glass. ‘He got kicked off his old team and word was he got married and cleaned up his act. The West Coast Sharks only signed him last season. He’d tell anyone who’d listen about that kid of his.’ He gulped more beer. ‘Guess once an addict …’

‘Maybe he really was clean, only something caused him to relapse.’

‘Your talk today would push anyone over the edge.’

Anya accidentally swallowed the ice with her mouthful, then noticed the lopsided grin.

‘Thanks for that five-star review!’ She was grateful for Ethan’s black humour. The day had been harrowing and his comment released the tension.

The bar had begun to fill with groups of young women, some dressed as if about to appear in an MTV video. Tight dresses that barely obscured underwear, shirts unbuttoned revealing frilly bras, bright red lips and false eyelashes seemed standard attire. They stood around as if waiting for something to happen, many ordering champagne or spirits. None looked older than twenty-five, although it was impossible to tell for certain.

Ethan did not seem to notice. ‘Because of Keller’s history, the Sharks had him tested on random days each week. It was part of his contract. They were all negative as far as I know, so no one was particularly concerned.’ He ran a finger around the rim of the bottle. ‘Imagine coming all that way then blowing it for a high.’

‘Ironically, being drug-free would have made him more vulnerable to dying from an overdose. He would no longer have tolerance to the drug. It’s why so many people die within a couple of hours of leaving prison. Their bodies can’t tolerate pure heroin, and one dose is all it can take.’

Having a child was life-changing and made the impossible
seem within reach. Thinking of Keller’s fatherless son, Anya felt further away from her own child. She checked her watch. Ben would be at school and would not arrive home for a few more hours. She would have to wait to phone.

Ethan finished the beer and ordered another, while Anya chose white wine. She took the opportunity to ask the waitress if there was a function tonight.

The waitress glanced at the groups of young women at the bar. ‘They’ve found out some of the players are staying here and they know the boys are likely to hit the bars after dinner.’

‘They’re all groupies?’

‘Yep.’ The waitress wiped the table. ‘Get them every time a team’s staying here.’

Anya wondered if any of them ever imagined they could be the victim of a violent assault or contract a sexually acquired infection by hooking up with a player.

‘There are people who would give everything they had just to be alive, let alone free of illness and pain. And Keller throws his life away like that.’ Ethan clicked his fingers.

‘Sometimes pain isn’t physical,’ Anya offered, unsure why Ethan seemed to be taking Keller’s death so hard. ‘No one really knows what a person goes through.’

Ethan’s vulnerability made her want to reach out to him, but she had no idea how. They continued their drinks in silence, Anya watching the women continue to preen until a procession of towering men entered the bar as if they were rock stars. Bar patrons turned and gawked, some of the women squealed and greeted the players by name.

‘Do you know the names of the Bombers players who are accused of the assault last night?’ Anya asked.

‘You already know some of them. For one, Pistol Pete Janson impressed you straight up.’

The cocky wise-cracker from the morning’s lectures.

‘Is his friend McKenzie on the list?’

‘Sure is, as well as a guy who seemed more reasonable. An African-American guy from the front row. Name of Alldridge.
It sounds like at least two rookies were in the room but we need to check that out.’

‘Hey, Catcher.’ A player Anya didn’t recognise slapped Ethan on the back.

‘I gather you know Doctor Crichton,’ he responded.

Recognition showed on the player’s face and he hastily withdrew. Another approached and changed course when he saw Anya.